A trend: the most awkward situations start with terrible terrible bodily odors that ooze from between the legs.

Take, for instance, work situation numero uno: an Eastern European girl who works on floor 4, 5, or 6 (they’re all the same company) (I work on floor 7) (it’s a different company). I was walking behind EE girl, and I saw her butt cheeks. It wasn’t an unfortunate situation of skirt-hikeage-due-to-baggage, but rather HER SKIRT WAS JUST THAT SHORT. I mean, you work at Citi. That’s not to say that you know or don’t know what’s up with the world, but that you’re in a professional environment requiring a professional wardrobe and you’re blatantly ignoring that code.

Well, as I reiterated this to my coworker, I got worked up, and the build-up led to a loud, “…BUTT CHEEKS,” at which point our Chief Technology Officer walked by and looked at me. Embarrassing, a small tad bit, but was there any smell involved? No. So it wasn’t that embarrassing.

But then there was this other time…

Designer 1, a wonderful albeit traitorous Ecuadorian who often threatens to cut off my nipples (we have that kind of relationship), was speaking to Designer 3, who sits across from me, and they were talking about places to go for D3’s yearly review. Turned out the place was expensive, so D1 said, “Well, maybe we should wait and go after work some time, and maybe we should take that one over there with us.” She meant me. I was focused on my work and did not turn away from my computer to acknowledge her, so she came over to me instead.

D1 tapped me on the shoulder: “Excuse me, can I ask you a question please?” At that very moment, my cube began to WREAK of bodily, gaseous odors that did not come from me. I was feeling particularly playful, so I said to D1, “Sure, but first, did you fart in my cube?”

D1 denied everything. “Uh… no… .” I turned around to confront her. It wasn’t D1. It was another girl. A girl I don’t even talk to.

Last weekend, I was at Brooklyn’s medium-to-high budget version of H&M, browsing about, perusing the inventory. And I mean, nothing but filthy hipsters usually are skulking about in that place, but it was empty besides my friend and I, and also, of course, the workers.

Naturally, I started going on to my anonymous friend about my thunder thigh epidemic. I may or may not have shouted, “I HAVE THUNDER THIGHS. IT’S A PROBLEM.” Who knows the exact words that were actually said that night? I do not. Except maybe one of the workers did.

You see, as soon as we came in, one of the sales assosciate man peoples, was all I’m going to keep standing here at my register completely useless and stare at a wall and have the expression that I’d rather star in a terribly ridiculous music video featuring heinous and scantily clad woman singers, maybe Lady Gaga and Beyonce for instance (I mean, really.) than to be sitting here inside, at this godforsaken overpriced (Really.) hipster sanction that nobody has even bothered to shimmy into. Or at least, that’s what his expression said. Really. I was concerned. Or at least, I felt that I should have been concerned.

But the other sales associate male person was super involved. He was hovering and mostly useless when it came to knowledge of clothing, but he was terribly entertaining and so we forgave him. Especially when he and my friend started talking about how amazing food stamps are. They were all, hooray we are poor, young Brooklynites. This is life! And I was all, no I’m over it and can’t really participate in this conversation.

But then I overheard that you can get foodstamps when you are poor (Check.) and get like, $200 per month (What the what?) and also spend that on booze, you know, if the grocery store has booze. WHAT THE WHAT?

If someone would have told me about a. how grocery stores sell the good shit in New York (I’m not actually sure they do. I mean, I’ve seen beer. And I feel like hoodrat grocery stores probably sell forties. So I’m all about it. Forties are my life source) and b. how food stamps are to be used in grocery stores and how they are amaaaaaaaaziiiiiiiing then c. this bitch would have been on food stamps long time ago. I’m talking, elementary school. Okay, no realistically, college. COME ON!

Oh and to follow up on a point, the super attentive sales associate co-man worker tried to convince me that I didn’t have thunder thighs. But then, I gave him the stank-eye so he laughed but then walked away like he was scared. At least he knew what was up.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to the Side, you know on the Upper East portion of that island, to perform some freelancing duties (not anything dirty, unfortunately) and I was really excited. I was covering new ground! I was walking around neighborhoods and subway platforms that I didn’t often walk around! New York was fresh and new! Then, waiting for the 4 train, I spotted someone who looked really very familiar.

I kind of hastily started walking towards who I thought was my beloved, pasty, missing in action okay/gosh partner in crime. I thought this was the aforementioned person because I immediately recognized the long puffy coat and the … indescribable reddish orange hair. And the awkward slouch. And so much more, man. Really. Including the forlorn expression, the lack of interest. I could go on. I already have, though. And I really ought to be careful in these situations because so many times, I literally start rushing towards someone and start saying something creepy only to realize that I have NO IDEA who this person is and I’ve stumbled upon yet another case of mistaken identity. So I should have thought of that. Instead, I thought of this time that I saw Kristen on a train and I started pounding on the window to the train and she looked at me like a crazy person, and then I finally got on the train and she kind of acted like she didn’t know who I was, like I was one of those festering homeless people (to her credit, I usually dress like a homeless person) because she didn’t want to creep out her coworker, who was obviously creeped out by behavior and then they got off the train and I realized that I was on the V instead of the F and the whole terribly awkward situation could have been avoided if only I had paid attention. That’s a lesson for the children.

So that’s what I thought of, and good thing because right when I slowed down and kind of just acted like I was only waiting for the train, the girl turned around. Indeed, it was not my friend, but a random person. A random African-American individual. Yes, I mistook a black person for my pasty Polish friend. (You are Polish, right?) It was embarrassing. I obviously told everyone I knew as soon as I once again had access to the internet.

Timbaland said it best when he said “I shouldn’t have left you (left you) without a dope beat to step to. Step to. Step to. Step to. Step to. Step to, fikky fikky uh.” Too much?

Anyway, the world is different now. I have a finer appreciation for unintentional hilariousness (not really). All at once, I want to choke a bitch but also slap her on the back, in a display of camaraderie, of sharing in the skill of all that is hilariousness, all for one and one for all!

The other night, I found myself at some sort of impromptu Star Trek convention, hosted by hipsters in the heart of Williamsburg. I know, right? And most of the night was devoted to Star Trek V commentary and also this band Fall On Your Sword, and they kind of make songs out of William Shatner commentary, which was completely appropriate because this whole celebration of sorts was inspired by the birthday of the Shat himself.

The band started playing and my friend and I started dancing, and a lot of things started to happen. “Something around here smells rank. Like mildew vagina.” My friend caught a whiff and agreed. It was a mess. Before we could begin to investigate the source of the stank vaginal smell, I got bumped into a few times by some particularly wild dancers who were flailing their bodies about and generally taking up my personal space. They had silicone elf ear things on, like Orlando Bloom as Legolas in Lord of The Rings. Yeah, I said it. And one of them had a leather jacket on, like… well like anyone who wears a leather jacket at an inappropriate venue, like a sweaty venue with awkward dancing and frankly, not enough liquor in my system. Okay. Fine. But the next day, I opened my purse and out came the vagina stench. And my boss goes “Well, cheap leather just smells bad. No offense.” Then she kind of swung her Louis Vuitton onto her shoulder and made another comment that went something like, I am a cool boss and nothing like a terrible boss like Michael Scott from the office, no never. And then she said something like “Jessica would be good with a black man, don’t you think Rachael?” which I thought was unreasonably, and characteristically so Michael Scott that I couldn’t take it anymore and eventually, after multiple beers, I was forced to take me and my pussy purse elsewhere.

To my masses of fans, I’m sorry. I feel terrible about how I’ve let you down lately. It’s just that [refer to title of post]. But seriously! SF is supposed to be home to freaks and geeks galore, astounding the masses with their hippy selves, right? And yet… everyone’s been so… normal.

There was a guy on the train this morning wearing a hat and using a cane? He asked for a seat? There’s a guy at work who uses the putting green behind me and makes the same joke about rim-jobs every day?

Here’s my real beef: everyone here is just. too. nice. And normal. Maybe if I were in L.A. it would be different. *crosses fingers*

From here on out, though, I’ll be sure to pay special attention to anything I can possibly see as abnormal or surprising or worthy of interestingnesses.

So for whatever reason, I decided I was going to go home for Memorial Day weekend so that I could take part in drugs, booze, and other shenanigans, specifically sleeping and an overconsumption of steak. I know. I am truly risqué.

And for whatever reason, it takes the Greyhound about seven hours to travel what is normally a four hour ride. Seven hours. Usually, I don’t mind so much, because I can read, zone out, and sleep, which are three things I find really comforting and therefore like to do quite a bit. HOWEVER NONETHELESS, it is hard to do these things when one is CONSTANTLY being HARASSED by a CREEPY BUS MAN.

I decided that I was not going to sit in the back of the bus again, because last time, I had the pleasure of sitting by myself but I was being harassed by the stench of year old piss and shit chunks, which was surprisingly unpleasant. Surprise, surprise. So I decided to sit in the middle of the bus. Rosa Parks didn’t do her thing for nothin. (I think here, I should use the word ‘thang’ but I feel really awkward about that. Bet.) So I’m all excited because everyone else around me is sitting by themselves and I figure that means I’ll get to sit by myself and stretch my legs against the other seat while I’m reading/zoning out/sleeping. HOWEVER NONETHELESS, I didn’t really get to do that.

“Is this goin to Pittsburgh?”

Why yes sir. Wouldn’t you know that before getting on the bus, douche wipe?

“Oh hey. Mm, you so pretty. Do you mind?”

Why yes I do. “Er, no. Go ahead.”

And so this man, this creepy man who looks like he’s probably going to molest me if he gets the chance, sits next to me with a styrofoam box of fried chicken and hot sauce. Whatever, that’s fine. I’m not infringing on anyone’s right to eat. And I mean, I’ve experienced fried chicken because I’ve gone to KFC, and besides I’m black. (I actually am black, and not racist.) So this man starts mock apologizing for devouring chicken in my face, which is pointless because I KNOW what fried chicken smells like, and it doesn’t smell like year old piss and shit chunks, and because I KNOW he wasn’t going to stop eating it if I would have said “You know, I’m allergic to the scent of fried chicken. Close your shit up, will you?”

After he was done, he started talking to me again. Because me reading/zoning out wasn’t enough of a hint for him to go away. “You’re so pretty. Are you married?” No. “How old are you?” 20. “Why aren’t you married?” I’m 20. “But you’re so fine.” Hey, thanks. “People get married at 20 all the time. You’re too pretty not to be married.” Um. “What are you reading? Sometin Happened?” No, Something Happened. Actually, I didn’t say that. I just kept reading. “Are you cold?” Well, I do have this sweater on. I didn’t say that either. I just nodded.

Finally, I got off the bus at the rest stop and called my mom and told her about the creepfest. “Don’t let him follow you! Don’t go to sleep. Keep one eye open.” Ok, she didn’t say that. She did tell me that I was giving him too much information and I should not give him so much information and that I should be very careful. But I think he heard me talking shit about him to my mother and when we got off the bus, he promptly moved to another seat. Either that or we left him at the rest stop.

Sometimes, you know, judging a judgmental place is just as bad as the place being judgmental in the first place. Besides K*** H** is not judgemental. Avalon trade-buy-sell in Squirrel Hill (spelling ’squirrel’ correctly is a daily struggle. Perhaps this has something to do with the creepalcious squirrels that come thisclose to you at University of Maryland, where my friends go) is judgmental. I will throw racist in there too, just for kicks. And because my friend said so. And besides, sometimes, I think maybe it isn’t worth spending $2.50 to withdraw ten dollars from my account (and no more, because I’m damn poor) just for a lack of concentration and some awkward conversations/non-conversations with a guy with a fake French name that I saw at the crepe place yesterday and felt awkward about, just BECAUSE 61C is cash only. Also, really, we should just rename this damn blog after him. He comes up that often.

1) I haven’t been home since January, so imagine my surprise when my mother has not only acquired a 40-inch television in her room, but also countless bootleg movies and a series of the ‘Hip Hop Abs’ DVD with the creepy fit black happy man from the commercials. Really, mother?

2) I think I’ll also refer to a time where someone watched me. This is going to be graphic, but probably not more graphic than a conversation you’ve had with me.

Enough about people watching (jk-zors!!). But seriously. How about some reverse people watching for a change. It just wrought havoc on me!

IE, post eating-something-with-lots-of-spices, I am nervous that I have lots of spices up in my grills. That makes the following awkward things happen, in the following order:

1. Enter 61C.

2. Talk to JohnPaulcoffeeman, to hand him a copy of thirty-four kites (<– shameless plug I’M SORRY) but in post-dining perfection. Speak tight-lipped, lips puckered around the edges of teeth a bit. Smile quickly, look down while smiling, because every time you reveal a tooth, you open yourself up to another mouth atrocity possibility, that spice in that tooth, that socio-equivalent to TP on your shoe.

3. End conversation AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

3a. Possibly end conversation before the conversation was actually done. Do not know.

I have a theory that goes something like this: people don’t know what to do with themselves when temperatures rise and the sun starts shining. They just get confused about what to wear, or who to be. It’s 76 degrees: I should wear jeans and a sweater right? I’m not even saying this is necessarily an uber negative thing, because I wore a hoodie today. You know, just in case.

And I’m rather confused too. I may or may not be sitting next to a female-to-male bonafide transsexual. I don’t want to stare more than I already am, people, but he/she keeps talking about how he’s part Syrian and part Italian, and his beard looks really delicate, like it was painted on. And gotdamn, his button up is crisp. And his/her face just looks like a face of a androgynous woman. And by androgynous, I mean, leaning more on the male side. And also not the hot kind of androgynous. God, I think I like the word androgynous.

I came here to do work and get ready for my presentation and crepes, and this fascinating real-life tranny is just distracting me. It’s so unfair. The only other real tranny I’ve seen is a male-to-female, and his/her name is Fergie. And then there’s that dude here who dresses like a woman and dons a mock high voice and wears nothing but skirts and wigs. Maybe the three of these people should meet and have a party, as long as they invite me. So I can just be overcome with fascination.

Also tranny man’s life is sad. His siblings died when they were young without children. That sucks.

But if it makes you feel any better, this dude who looks like a Belushi brother reject is gettin’ down on a sandwich like a straight up HEATHEN.